


The Man at Table Nine

by CallipygianGoldfish



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, Fluff, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 12:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19887712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallipygianGoldfish/pseuds/CallipygianGoldfish
Summary: Anthony Crowley hasn’t built up his reputation as the fiercest chef in London by being nice to people. Forget Gordon Ramsay, everyone knew you needed balls of steel to work at Enfer. When the famed restaurant and food critic Zira Fell walks through his door one Thursday night, it’s only another work day to Crowley.Aziraphale, on the other hand, just doesn’t want his first blind date in twenty years to end with tears.





	The Man at Table Nine

Aziraphale is having a night off. For once in his life, he doesn’t have to think about plating, texture and ambiance, and instead he’s planning on purely enjoying the food. And hopefully the company. Ever since Anathema had kindly forced him sign up to an online dating program, he’d only scoffed and looked the other way. But the last few weeks had been pretty manic, what with his book launching and the various press tours he’d had to do, and he thought that for once he needed an evening doing something other than retiring at nine with a good book. After scrolling through the many, many single men in his area, he and Anathema had sent off tentative messages to some people he’d had things in common with, and one of them had replied with interest. 

Surprisingly, his date was the one to suggest _Enfer_ , and he thought this was a promising sign of things to come. _Enfer_ was the up and coming place to be in Mayfair, dark walls but bright enough to see your companions, and a pot plant in every corner. In Aziraphale’s eyes, anyone with an interest in food was likely to be a good dinner companion and a promising match, and after all, they could always discuss the food if the conversation went downhill. 

And oh boy, it goes downhill pretty quickly. His date, who’d asked to be called by his surname, had initially turned up twenty minutes late to their reservation, leaving Aziraphale sat awkwardly and ordering yet another tonic water. Once he arrived, muttering something about a business call, Aziraphale had hoped that the evening would go smoothly from then on. His date, Mr. Sable, had not stopped checking his phone every five minutes and seemed uninterested in the menu or in Aziraphale. They order two courses and Sable asks for the most expensive bottle in the house for them both, ignoring the fact they have very different dishes and that neither would be complemented by the wine.

“Tell me then, Sable, what do you do?” The starters arrive and Aziraphale resists the urge to clap at the delicate sear on the sides of his scallops. He has to remind himself that this is not work, but pleasure instead, and that he shouldn’t start taking notes.

“I’m an investment broker,” Sable replies. “I mainly deal with the high rollers, you know?” He explains about the process with gusto, his late nights and schmoozing his clients with enough red wine to fill Loch Ness. After about ten minutes of oohing and ahhing in the right places, Aziraphale gives up on trying to get a word in edgeways. Finally, there’s a pause. 

“How’s the lobster?” Aziraphale asks desperately, attempting to change the subject. “The scallops are fantastic, I must say.”

Sable licks a bit of sauce off the end of his spoon and wrinkles his nose. “Alright, I guess. It’s food. I have a very discerning palate, you know, you probably wouldn’t understand.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. This man clearly hasn’t read his dating profile. “Oh really?”

“For sure. I once had this three-hundred-dollar steak in New Zealand, that was much better. Most people don’t really appreciate wagyu, but I do.”

“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you,” Aziraphale mutters under his breath. Sable doesn’t take any notice of him, and continues to talk about how annoying it was that so many home cooks were now churning out recipe books, diminishing the true value of cooking. Aziraphale, who had once spent a delightful weekend with Jack Monroe discussing how to make practically anything out of a can of beans, doesn’t care. 

And so the conversation continues throughout the starters, with every question that Aziraphale asks being answered with some reference to how much money this man makes. Thankfully the mains arrive, and Aziraphale can’t contain his excitement at the distraction of the delicate plating that was laid in front of him, and he sighed happily at a bite of succulent duck. 

“Why did you pick here for us to meet?” Aziraphale asks out of interest, watching as Sable nudged some of the olives off his lamb with a fork. Discerning palate, indeed. 

“My girlfriend recommended it to me. She said the chef was hot, so here we are.” 

Aziraphale coughs, thinking he misheard. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Oh, my girlfriend. She’s currently in the Middle East somewhere, you know, I thought I might as well have a bit of fun while she’s gone, right?” Sable smiles with his teeth, and Aziraphale swallows. This… Was not how he saw this evening going.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend. I must have got the wrong end of the stick.” Aziraphale is relieved in a way, relaxing as he realizes he doesn’t need to make up an excuse to part ways after dessert.

“Huh.” Sable frowns. “Well, doesn’t really matter does it? You wanna fuck?”

Aziraphale chokes on a bit of asparagus. “What?” He looks over his shoulder to see if anyone had overheard their conversation, but the waiters were still at the bar and the nearest tables were engrossed in their own partners. 

Sable rolls his eyes. “Oh, of course. Perfect. You’re one of those three date types, right? At our age hon, we can’t afford to wait.” He lifts his eyebrows expectedly and Aziraphale blinks.

“Um, I, uh,” he stammers, trying to make his brain work. “I don’t think that’s what I’m looking for?”

“Shame.” Sable sniffs and drains the rest of his wine. “In that case, gotta go.”

“You’re not staying for dessert?” Aziraphale asks, affronted. “It’s the best part.”

“For some people, maybe. Anyway, you really don’t need it.” Chair scraped back, Sable gestures to a waitress for his coat, and tosses a few twenties down on the table, before turning for the door. “Bye.”

“It was nice to- oh, he’s gone.” Aziraphale sits back down from where he had risen to say goodbye, and sighs. The waitress takes a few steps towards the table, sees the dejected look on his face, and quickly heads back to the bar. 

*

Crowley watches from the side of the kitchen window as Mr. Fell’s partner leaves. They hadn’t ordered dessert yet, and that was troubling. After reading so many of Fell’s columns, Crowley knew he _always_ got dessert, or some sort of sweet treat to finish his meal. Either something was very wrong between them, or there was a problem with the food. And he didn’t like that idea one bit. 

As soon as the waiter had told him who was sat at table nine, he has to go into the cool room and sit with his head between his knees for a few minutes, until the chill starts to get to him. After Adam came in twice to check if he was okay, Crowley finally summons the courage to head back to his station and get through the rest of the night. He pointedly ignores table nine’s ticket, thinking it would not be a true experience if he paid special attention to their order, and instead leaves it up to his very-talented-if-a-bit-of-a-dick head chef Gabriel to complete the tickets as normal. 

He checks, tastes, and re-checks every dish that goes out, and only once the dining room is half empty does he allow himself to take a look outside. Mr. Fell seems as if he is about to self-combust, complete with a twitching eyelid and locked jaw, but Crowley hopes that is half to do with the company he is keeping and not the food. He can’t help but worry though, even as sous chef Pepper pats him on the back and the rest of his crew reassure him that everything is fine. 

Taking another look outside, Crowley bites his lip at the sight of Fell still staring at the door. There’s only one other table left to order mains, and he’s sure his team can cope without him for five minutes. It’s probably a mistake to go out there, as half of his reputation is upheld by being a mysterious figure who is never seen outside the kitchen, and yet he can’t help but wonder if there was something wrong with the food that led to the other man leaving so abruptly. Admittedly, Fell is still there, so maybe he’s interested in dessert after all. Crowley takes a deep breath and brushes any wayward crumbs off his jacket, before telling Adam he’s checking on table nine.

The restaurant is quietening down for the evening, with most tables taking coffee and finishing their glasses in various states of inebriation. Crowley sneaks around the bar and asks a waitress to help clear the plates from table nine. She mutters something about giving their guest some privacy, and he frowns. 

“What’s the matter with table nine?”

“He seemed a bit upset, sorry,” she says with a grimace. “I was going to clear it away but I think the other guy, like, left? One minute they’re talking and the next he’s gone?”

“Hmm. Thanks, Janet.” Crowley crosses over to Fell and stands to the side of the table. He takes a deep breath and tries not to get distracted by the man’s soft blonde curls. “How was everything for you tonight?” 

“Oh, I thought it was lovely, thank you,” Fell says distractedly, raising a hand to bite one nail. He still has half a glass of wine left, and Crowley relaxes.

“Glad to hear it.” Thank goodness it wasn’t the food, Crowley praises inwardly, and resists the urge to jump up and down. “Anything else we can help with, maybe some dessert?” 

“What?” Fell finally turns his head to look at him, and frowns. “Oh. You’re not a waiter. Oh, I’m so sorry, that was awfully rude of me.”

“’s true though.” Crowley introduces himself with a handshake, and watches in amusement as Fell’s cheeks turn pink. He wonders what else would make him blush, and pushes the thought out his head before it can distract him further. “I’m Anthony, I run back of house.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” Fell shakes his hand warmly and gives a tentative smile. “I’m not quite myself at the minute, I’m afraid. But everything was very nice, thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Crowley says. “If there’s anything else we can help with, please let somebody know.” He starts to back away, but stops when he hears Fell sigh plaintively.

“It’s awfully silly of me, I know. But I’ve just had my first date in twenty years, and he walks out before pudding.”

_Bastard_ , Crowley thinks, and he wonders if it was too late to run down the street and punch the guy for putting that look on Fell’s face. “Rude, was he?”

Aziraphale makes a so-so motion with his hand. “Apparently simple cooking is below him, I’m too fat for dessert and he’d rather have a piece on the side than an actual relationship. Or at least, that was what was implied. It could have been he was looking for a thing between me, him and his girlfriend. Who knows in this day and age?”

Crowley snorts. Everyone and their mother knew that Fell favoured simplicity over pretentious food, and he’s often raved online about how Instagram has created a culture that means people think they can’t cook unless it’s as perfect as it does in professional photos. A thought crept into his head. It was reckless, but he knew he was playing a dangerous game as soon as he stepped into the dining room, and Crowley can’t help it.

“Chocolate or fruit?” he asks briskly.

“Pardon?”

“Do you prefer chocolate, or fruit to finish a meal?”

“Oh, chocolate, I would say.” Fell narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“He was wrong. Dessert is for everybody, especially you. I’ll be back.” Crowley practically skips back to the kitchen and Adam raises his eyebrows at him as he dances around the cool room with a tart in one hand and a block of chocolate in the other. 

“Oh, shush.” He waves a hand at Pepper who snickers by her station. “We want a good review, don’t we?”

“Yeah, that’s not all you want a good one of, huh?” Pepper says with a smirk. “Weren’t those going to be for that wedding party tomorrow?”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” 

“Go get him, tiger.” She waggles her tongue at him and Crowley snorts, putting the finishing garnishes on his ganache with a drizzle of Dulce de Leche and a sprinkling of icing sugar. Heading back to the dining room, he checks the final mains heading out and nods in approval at the waiter taking it to the last table. Taking a deep breath, he walks towards table nine and hopes he doesn’t fuck it up too badly.

“Here you go, Mr. Fell,” Crowley says, setting the plate down in front of him and sliding into the seat opposite. “To make up for the most disastrous first date I have heard about so far this month.”

“Oh, thank you!” Fell lights up at the chocolate ganache in front of him, but then looks up at Crowley sheepishly. “Actually, my dear, call me Zira. Mister sounds much too professional, and no one ever remembers Aziraphale. My parents had a thing for long names that sound as if they come straight from Greek mythology, and my first editor just split it right in two, much easier that way.”

“What do you prefer?” Crowley asks, tilting his head.

Aziraphale looks taken aback. “I suppose I don’t mind?”

“Aziraphale it is then,” Crowley says with a nod. “I’ve been called by my surname since I was in nappies, so I know how odd names can be sometimes. Now eat your pudding.”

“Oh yes.” Aziraphale takes a small bite of the tart and moans around his spoon, the sound of it going straight to Crowley’s belly, where it lodges itself like a persistent kidney stone. “Oh, that is divine.”

“Good,” Crowley says eventually, watching as Aziraphale carefully savours the pastry. He doesn’t like to brag, but he’s especially proud of his ganache, filled with rich chocolate, a sprinkling of sea salt and a hint of sweetness. It’s easy once you know how, but it’s one of his favourites as well. “Not too much caramel?”

“Absolutely perfect. The simple things are often the best. And anyone who doesn’t appreciate dessert can fuck right off in my books.” 

Crowley gapes at the profanities coming out of that perfect mouth, and starts to smile. “I’ve always thought so too. A little temptation now and then never hurt anybody.”

“Except perhaps my bank account,” Aziraphale says with a wink. Crowley’s heart flutters, and he tries to remind himself that this is a bad idea and he is a professional. It doesn’t work.

“Exquisite.” Aziraphale scrapes up every last drop of sauce, and Crowley can’t help but preen at the empty plate, a sign of a dish evidently enjoyed. “I know the tart hasn’t been on the menu for a while. That was very kind of you, thank you.”

Crowley huffs. “That’s not… I’m not… It’s just business.”

“Oh yes?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “So you didn’t just go make me a dessert that you aren’t selling, and you aren’t kindly sitting with me so that I don’t have to eat it alone?”

“No. Of course not.” Crowley examines the woodwork of the table. “That would be silly.”

“Thought so,” Aziraphale says smugly, and Crowley tries his best to glare back at him. “It is perfect though. I’m only sad I can’t finish this evening with a review. I came out tonight with the express desire not to do a single work thing, and look where it got me?” He gestures across the table at Crowley. “Sat with one of the best chefs in London, and I don’t even have a notepad for an interview.”

Crowley laughs. “Flattery will get you nowhere. Except maybe a coffee.” It’s a shame that they won’t be getting a good review for _Enfer_ , but he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to live in suspense for the rest of the week. He tells himself that he’s going to head back to the kitchen in a minute to finish up, but for a moment it’s nice to sit and enjoy the restaurant he’s poured his heart and soul into over the last few months.

“I could go for a coffee, I suppose,” Aziraphale says. “And well, that tart more than made up for the earlier company, I must say.”

“I hope it did. It’s for a party of ten tomorrow who are going to be surprised when I tell them there’s only nine tarts left and they have to fight gladiator-style for them.” Aziraphale’s eyes light up in amusement, and Crowley can’t seem to drag himself away. “It’s okay, I’ll make some more in the morning.”

“I’m glad. And wait, earlier you mentioned this was the most disastrous date this month?” Aziraphale asks. “What lovely event preceded this evening then?”

“We could be here all night,” Crowley warns, lips twitching a smile. Aziraphale beams.

“I’ve got nowhere to be.” 

The bar staff are mopping up by the time they realise how engrossed in each other they have become, and they don’t have to feign surprise at the time when Pepper comes out of the kitchen to tell them to go home. Crowley quickly checks the kitchen and finds it immaculate, Gabriel proudly bossing the staff around to get everything packed away and ready for the next day. He dismisses Pepper and Adam, who leer at him and tell him not to stay up too late, and he heads back out to the dining room. Aziraphale has sorted his cheque and collected his coat by the time he returns, and Crowley wonders if it’s too forward to ask if the other man fancied a nightcap.

“I suppose I’ll just have to come back,” Aziraphale says with a sigh as the door closes, Crowley trusting the last of the bar staff to lock up behind them. “After all, can’t have a place like this going unnoticed, can we?”

“Sparing another evening of your busy schedule? People will think you’re picking favourites,” Crowley says as they pause outside the building. It’s late enough that the streets are empty, only the occasional taxi and intertwined couple going past. 

“So what if I am?” Aziraphale bites his lip. “I can always spare a few minutes now, if you’d uh, like to grab a drink?”

“Aziraphale, it’s gone one am.”

“Oh. So it has.” His face falls and Crowley stumbles over his words to fix it.

“But I’m free tomorrow morning? Sorry, today morning? This morning? A few hours from now?” He manages to shut himself up eventually, desperately wishing he had a better brain-to-mouth filter. “We could, uh, have breakfast if you fancied it?”

Aziraphale clasps his hands in front of him. “My dear, that would be lovely. I don’t have any plans until lunch, shall we meet back here?” 

“It’s a date then.” Crowley breathes in sharply. “I mean, it’s not a date if you don’t want it to be, but if you did, that would be-”

Aziraphale cuts him off with a finger against Crowley’s lips. “I do. I would also like that. Thank you.” He pauses for a moment, then slowly leans in to press a kiss to the side of Crowley’s cheek, and Crowley gently reaches across the gap between them to take Aziraphale’s hand in his. It’s chaste and fleeting, but as Aziraphale leans back, Crowley doesn’t want it to end. Despite the late hour, he doesn’t feel tired at all.

“Until tomorrow then,” he says softly, and Aziraphale smiles.

“I look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! <3


End file.
